“Heavy sigh, Reg?”
“My daughter, Syd. Again.”
“I was afraid it might be. What’s her crusade this time?”
“What else?”
“Don’t tell me …”
“Yes. She’s in with the Occupy Wall Street mob.”
“My condolences.”
“I thought we taught her better. There’s an election coming, and I’m trying to help our buddy Jim take money out of the state’s pocket and put it in his, where it belongs. I don’t need the distraction.”
“That’ll take care of itself, Reg. Voters last year canned the soda-pop tax on our say-so, to our profit and their loss, they’ll do what we tell them again this year.”
“Thank you, Syd. You are, of course, correct.”
“Just shows what you think of your daughter that I’m reminding you about this. These people don’t even know what they want.”
“And we shouldn’t be surprised at this because we’ve rigged the schools so that they don’t teach people to understand things, only to do what people tell them.”
“With us doing the telling.”
“Right. Which means that these … occupiers must be being told by somebody that they can do better with them than with us. And what possible motive can those “somebodies” have that will drive them to do this? There can be only one. To take money out of our pockets and put it in theirs. I give my daughter an allowance out of all proportion to her deserts, and this is the thanks I get. I really will have to disown her this time. Didn’t we teach her that what she’s advocating is theft of our property?”
“She’d probably argue that property itself is theft, you know.”
“Until she’s got all mine, you mean.”
“Mine too. Hmmm, I just had a thought. We should ask the French king about how he is dealing with all this. I gather this infestation is in Europe, too.”
“Yes, we … Sydney. There is no French king.”
“Yes, of course, you are correct. My bad.”
“Off with their heads!”
Whose? Everybody’s I fear, when this finally comes to a head.